Black Marsden Page 11

  Thus he could see in his private theatre or premises all the elements of crisis which plagued a civilization. Written into the most common-or-garden vigils were the pressures of time. Mrs. Glenwearie had been drawn to the door of death—as had he (Goodrich) been drawn to the narrow pass leading to Namless Town—and as had he (Marsden) been drawn to play a kind of depleted role in a hiatus of knowledge. A hiatus or depletion which had become the stigmata of a universal bridegroom whose persona was civilization. A civilization that had left its impress in almost every crook and cranny of the known world. A civilization that had been showered with gifts, resources, materials beyond the wildest dreams of societies in earlier centuries. A civilization therefore which invited a kind of disaster (as with every bridegroom of fate wedded to universal resources), a kind of backlash from those cultures which had given all they possessed, and from “nature” which had been drained of so much….

  Thus to stand at the door of death in a composite terrain of profound imagination or in a common-or-garden station of existence determined by history was to be visited—however subconsciously—by the intimate pressures of an age piling up across generations (disease, starvation, alarming pollution, overpopulation etc. etc.). To be visited also by a necessity for decision beyond mere vigilance—how to relate oneself to oblivion—wasted resources, wasted lives etc.—and extract from it a caveat restraining technological hubris. How (in some degree of genuine humility) to come to grips with the bridegroom’s executioner through a decision related to a half-open, half-shut door to lives on this planet. How at the same time within instrumental measures—birth-control gift horse etc.—to opt for life as a never-ending river of sweetness, fountain of love….

  This immense variable drama was related to oneself however far one fled from a so-called centre of things. It might pass over one’s head like a tide of oblivion. But one’s very obliviousness to it was part of the fabric, part of the comedy of the fabric: a blessing in disguise for some who were relieved of anxieties, a curse for others who were plagued to the end of their days by their ignorance or helplessness or complacency or historical complicity in the disposition of common-or-garden particular resources….

  *

  Jennifer had arranged to see her doctor in the afternoon and Goodrich set out in the morning of the same day to make a few purchases. In confessing to being plagued by enormous questions he had become aware that he was also plagued by the denuded figure or shadow he sometimes became. His jackets were inclined to be over-casual, rather worn-looking, old-looking for a man with half-a-million pounds in the Bank. His shirts too had remained stubbornly bloodless against the extrovert styles of the day. (For a long time he had had his eye on a flaming pink cravat and a scarlet shirt but every time he ventured into Princes Street to buy these, somehow he couldn’t summon up the courage.)

  Then there were his trousers which never seemed to keep their crease the way other men’s did. For ages too he had worn a pair of comfortable boots despite Mrs. Glenwearie’s protests that he should get himself something smarter for a change.

  No wonder people did not see him in the street. It was a marvellous discipline in invisibility but the time for a change was at hand. He was reminded of a passage in Stevenson’s Amateur Emigrant which told of practising upon the public by:

  “going abroad through a suburban part of London simply attired in a sleeve-waistcoat…. The result was curious. I then learned for the first time, and by the exhaustive process, how much attention ladies are accustomed to bestow on all male creatures of their own station; for, in my humble rig, each one who went by me caused a certain shock of surprise and a sense of something wanting. In my normal circumstances, it appeared, every young lady must have paid me some passing tribute of a glance; and though I had often been unconscious of it when given, I was well aware of its absence when it was withheld. My height seemed to decrease with every woman who passed me, for she passed me like a dog. This is one of my grounds for supposing that what are called the upper classes may sometimes produce a disagreeable impression in what are called the lower; and I wish someone would continue my experiment, and find out exactly at what stage of toilette a man becomes invisible to the well-regulated female eye.”

  It was a nice remark—well-regulated female eye—Goodrich thought, and it rang a deep bell in his mind associated with the seeing eye, the unseeing eye, the personalization of blind or visionary society written into unwitting status or rank as an intercourse of fates.

  To retire into invisibility was to invite the most secret correspondence of all—the most secret flowering garments of all. To breach fate in some degree…. Goodrich was all of a sudden disconcerted by the weight he placed on his newfound relationship of trust with Jennifer Gorgon. Disconcerted by the desire to externalize it into a ready-made flamboyance…And yet as he made his way into a shop in Princes Street he felt a kind of laughter, a kind of delight and acquittal from overburden at the prospect of buying something made of flame, made of fire, in an inner cautionary rather than outer exhibitionist sense.

  *

  Goodrich bought the new shirt, cravat and a pair of sandals and left the shop with the parcels under his arm. He crossed Princes Street towards the Gardens in the valley under the Castle. A small crowd of sightseers had gathered around the floral clock waiting for the cuckoo to appear and the hour to strike. He strolled along the pavement with its high banks of flowers: one of those uncanny, slightly ominous but beautiful autumnal days which sometimes appear in the middle of summer. A misty light lay upon the hollow of the valley and he felt himself so absorbed by it that he clutched the parcels under his arm quite fiercely. The sound of a train addressed him and a puff or two of smoke inserted a pillar into the phenomenon of autumn stitched into summer.

  For all these reasons, phenomenal reasons, all related to the garb of the year, Goodrich felt that this was a memorable day in the body of his life. An unforgettable day—unforgettable as a pattern of erasures and accretions, accumulations, dispersals—unforgettable not least in the purchases he had made to symbolize an eternal apparition of spirit, however denuded, however misted over, however solitary, however wedded to place and time.

  A stream of people descended towards the bandstand on his left and Goodrich made his way towards the West End, ascended to the street and turned into Lothian Road. The street here was wide and the buildings seemed rather grimy but as he drew closer to the Usher Hall he recalled a concert he had attended there with Jennifer and Marsden some months before: Webern’s Symphony, something by Couperin (he had forgotten what this was), some Bach.

  The greyness of the street scene lifted somewhat into the mild expansive half-autumnal, half-summer day. An unforgettable day in his life for reasons beyond a precise location or summary of events. He tightened his grip upon the parcels. A day (he smiled whimsically) of judgement and acquittal. Goodrich made his way back to the West End suddenly anxious to be home. He hailed a taxi.

  *

  When Goodrich arrived home, he went to his room, undid the packages and changed into his new shirt and cravat. It was quite a luxurious garment with the most delicate markings, and as he adjusted the cravat and felt the rich texture of the shirt upon him, he was possessed by the sensation of an impresario of bonfires (the fire of love, the fire of decision) wedded to inner lives and fabrics of time.

  He changed into dark trousers and sandals the colour of cedar which he had also bought that morning. All he needed now he thought vividly was an impressive turban to confirm his metamorphosis into an underground bridegroom of fate.

  He made his way into the hall with a sensation of the swirling currents of life come to a controlled head in him at last. It was a curious intoxication, beautifully controlled, however, beautifully decisive. Yet, though controlled, not beyond allowing him a reckless latitude. He found himself humming a disjointed version of an ancient ballad:

  “He was a braw gallant

  And rid at the ring

  And the bonny Earl o�
�� Moray

  He micht hae been a King.

  He was a braw gallant

  And played wi’ the glove

  And the bonny Earl o’ Moray

  He was Queen Jennifer’s love.

  O lang will Black Marsden

  Look frae the castle doon

  Ere the bonny Jennifer Gorgon

  Come ridin’ through the toon.”

  There were voices in the sitting-room and when he entered Jennifer and Marsden were standing by the fireplace. He saw Marsden, in fact, first of all reflected in the mirror above. There was a look almost of satisfaction, a brooding calculating face upon him which registered quite distinctly upon Goodrich. Yet despite this a hang-dog almost Knife-like air possessed him too; above all, however, he was still steeped in the astonishing depletion of power which Goodrich had sensed over the past few days.

  And now, perhaps because of this air of depletion, he seemed more than ever in line with Jennifer’s consorts—the pale young man and Ralph the mechanic and others perhaps who were nameless.

  These impressions ran through Goodrich’s mind like sand. He looked away from the image in the mirror to confront Marsden and Jennifer who were both, in their turn, so astonished to see him in his new garb that they stood stock-still. Goodrich could not help noting that whatever depletion Marsden endured, Jennifer had become a creature of electric assurance and beauty.

  Goodrich almost felt a hint of disapproval in their manner. Perhaps a hint of accusation—accusation that he—the world’s guinea pig—should turn peacock, a usurper of fire, of privileges. Or perhaps this was not the case. Perhaps they were a little disturbed that he appeared to be making a bid for—was it Salome’s child?

  Then, as if to break the spell, Jennifer smiled. She took a few quick paces towards him and threw her arms around him. Goodrich was conscious of her perfume and the sensuous weight of her body, of the breath on her lips in the breath of his.

  “Clive,” she cried before he could utter a word, “I’ve told Mardie everything. And look—” she flung one slender arm wide—“he isn’t mad. He isn’t furious with me at all. He approves of you—of my plans. I’ve told him everything—about you and me—everything….”

  Goodrich felt a sudden constriction in his throat, the toppling of his body of intoxication, the toppling of his reckless ballad of intoxication. The air in the room became oppressive, choking. He pushed her away from him almost violently. “How … how … could you?” he stammered and choked.

  “How could I what?” She looked at him with her brutal childlike candour. Then added urgently, “What is it, Clive? What have I done wrong?”

  “Why couldn’t you tell me first what the doctor said? Why couldn’t you wait to hear from me first before telling him?” He pointed at Marsden. “It was a secret between us, remember? How could you take me for granted like this? How could you take anyone for granted like this? Why couldn’t you come to me first and hear my decision …?”

  “But it’s Mardie. I told only him. Don’t you understand? No one else. There are no secrets from him. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know that?”

  As she stood before him, accusing him, remonstrating with him, wholly oblivious to him it seemed (as if even when she looked at him she saw only Marsden), Goodrich could no longer suppress the words which burst from him: “Get out! Get out! Both of you. I don’t want to see either of you again.”

  There was dead silence. And it seemed now to Clive that the beating of his heart was the only sound in the world. After a moment Jennifer cried, like one who had been struck a blow, “How can you be so cruel? What’s the matter with you? I want …”

  Goodrich cut her short. “Get out. Get out I tell you. You want—you want—you want….” He felt almost consumed—on the brink of peril and fire. At this instant his gaze locked into Marsden’s. And a feverish pressure mounted in him to yield his ground. He was conscious also of Jennifer’s trembling accusing lips and a desire arose in him to subjugate himself to her—to them both. Then it passed and his anger and sense of betrayal kept him from moving towards them. A lifetime passed in that curious tableau of figures until Marsden and Jennifer began slowly to make their way to the door.

  Before they actually left the room Black Marsden turned and looked back for the last time at Goodrich. He was still clad in his garment of consort, as if he were—for all the world to see—the faces of the pale young rider in the Royal Mile and Ralph the mechanic lover; and other faces Goodrich could not guess at, except to know that at some stage or other they too had been Jennifer’s lovers. Goodrich had the sensation that at the last moment Marsden had been defeated in securing another face—the face of Clive Goodrich….

  It was such an alarming irrational idea (that Marsden had come so close to acquiring this face—his face—) that Goodrich felt a sense of guilt—a sense of illusion born of his violent temper. He felt constrained in some degree to try and remedy the situation. He could at least have given them money—parted from them on better terms—not on such drastic uncompromising terms. He rushed out and up to their rooms to talk with them. Surely not more than five minutes could have passed and yet it seemed another lifetime.

  Their doors were flung wide as to a fierce draught. No one was within. He rushed down again to the front door to find Mrs. Glenwearie on the point of entering.

  “Oh Mr. Goodrich dear,” she cried, “I’m so glad to be back. My sister’s taken a turn for the better. But what’s been happening? I’ve just seen Dr. Marsden and Miss Gorgon racing like the wind up the street. It was almost as if they were flying. I could hardly believe my eyes. They were in a terrible hurry and no mistake.”

  “Yes,” said Goodrich.

  “When are they coming back?”

  “They won’t be returning, Mrs. Glenwearie.”

  “Not at all, sir?”

  “Not at all.”

  For a moment a veil seemed to cover Mrs. Glenwearie’s eyes. She looked away into space and then back at him. “Ah well,” she said, “maybe it’s all for the best.” She closed the door. “Why, what a lovely shirt and tie. You are looking smart, Mr. Goodrich.”

  He was relieved at her return, but though he welcomed her presence and felt armed by a strange inner tide of decision, a strange inner fire of secret resolution, he felt alone, utterly alone, as upon a post-hypnotic threshold at the heart of one of the oldest cities in Europe.

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2012

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House

  74–77 Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  All rights reserved

  © Wilson Harris, 1972

  The right of Wilson Harris to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–29750–4